Sigquaya

by K M Roberts

  “I need water,” she barked, ripping off the lower corner of her Rector’s robe. “Now!”

  She turned to Marshaan. “And get this gods-damned knife out of my brother!”

  Marshaan wrapped his hand around the handle and pulled. Marcus screamed and then fainted. His hand was loose of the bow, but there was a huge, oozing gash between the third and fourth tendon.

  I ran to the Mihtcarr, climbing down vines and handholds until I got to where the river broke over the falls. I had no idea how this would help, but I dipped the rag into the water and climbed back up, the rag dripping onto my arm and shoulder as I ascended.

  When I got back to Arteura, she balled it up and placed it over Marcus’s wound, singing and cooing softly, rocking him as she worked.

  After a moment, she lifted the now blood-soaked rag and winced, obviously not liking what she was seeing.

  “I need more,” she said. “More water.” She looked up at me, gesturing at my clothes impatiently as she said, “Tear something off and get me more!”

  I did, returning after a moment with a second wet rag, which she placed against his palm on the opposite side of his hand from the first. As she lifted the first rag away, I could see that the wound had stopped bleeding, and it seemed smaller than it had a moment ago.

  What the hell?? I thought. That can’t be.

  Then I thought of when I’d used the magic of fire to cauterize my own wound. Was she doing something similar? With water?

  Maybe Marshaan was right—we definitely had some family issues.

  I think we both have some explaining to do, sister.

  She was still cooing and rocking as Marcus began to come to.

  She opened the rag a third time and looked. The wound was definitely smaller this time, only about half the size. I looked to Marshaan and the others, all of whom were staring, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. Marshaan looked at me, his eyes questioning and his brow furrowed. All I could do was shrug and shake my head. Less than a day ago, I knew nothing of magic and manipulation. Now, it would seem, we were a family of magicians. The Temple would call us—and, as I thought about it, had called us—Ma’wan.

  Marcus stirred and opened his eyes.

  Then they flew wide as he shook his hand free from his sister and scrambled back, crab-like, on all fours.

  “Art-Arteura,” he said, flexing his hand and looking at it strangely. The gash was completely healed in the palm, and the back of his hand looked like nothing more than a narrow scratch. “Wha . . . what are you doing?”

  “I’m saving your hand, you bloody fool,” she said. “What are you even doing here? You’re obviously alone.”

  “I’m not.”

  He hesitated just long enough to call into question the obvious lie. “And, I followed you. I knew where you would probably go. Where you’d hide.”

  She nodded. “Our spot, yes. But why?”

  He looked around defiantly, still sitting with his legs up and his hands behind him.

  “At first I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he answered. “But then I saw the Rectors climbing the falls. And I saw you follow. I didn’t know what was going on, but then I heard fighting and yelling and screaming from up here. So I followed you.” He looked back in the direction of the Mihtcarr. “That’s a godsawful long climb. And when I finally got to the top”—he turned his head, raising his chin at one of the fallen Rectors—“this is what I saw.”

  He looked to the rest of us while still talking to Arteura. “I didn’t know whether you were with them, or were a prisoner. I just . . . I knew I had to stop you. To stop them.”

  “Marcus, I—”

  “And now I see you’re with them?”

  She looked at me, pleading in her eyes. Again I shook my head, ever so slightly, once.

  “I’m not with anyone,” she answered with an edge to her voice. I wasn’t sure whether that edge was directed at our brother or at me. “Marcus, please listen to me. The Empire, the Elder, he wants to kill us—your mother and I—because of their own, his own, naivety. We were trying to save the grainfields, Marcus. We’re trying to save the Empire!”

  “LIES!” he growled. “You’re Ma’wan, and so is our mother. What the Temple is doing, it does for the good of the Empire. The Temple, and the Elder, are who are trying to save the Empire! From the likes of you!”

  He rolled in a flash and grabbed a longsword from a fallen Rector; standing and squaring off, he faced Arteura with a mask of hatred and nerve.

  “To arms, sister,” he hissed.

  Arteura was still crouched where she had been nursing Marcus just a moment before. She laid the bloody rags beneath her. Her hands were shaking, but she refused to rise.

  “Marcus, don’t.”

  “I said,” he hissed, and stepped in. With a thrust, he pierced one of Arteura’s hands that was still clutching a rag, pinning her hand and rag to the dirt. She screamed.

  He withdrew and stepped back, holding us off as we surrounded Arteura.

  She cursed and rose in the midst of us, facing him, her breath searing through clenched teeth.

  “Out of my way,” she growled.

  We all turned to her, bewildered.

  “You heard me.”

  Reluctantly, we parted. Arteura reached, cross-handed with her good right hand, and withdrew her left sword, dropping it at her feet. Then, she withdrew the other sword, slowly and methodically, and dropped it beside the first, her eyes never blinking or leaving Marcus.

  She knelt, gathering one blade, flipping it, and then grasping the other until she held them together, one blade pointing out each side of her hand.

  “You remember how this ended last time for you, little brother,” she spat.

  “We aren’t playing now, sister,” he countered.

  She rose, holding the new dual-bladed weapon in front of her, rolling her wrist as the blades flashed in the sunlight; she clutched her other hand tightly to her chest, still holding the wet rag as blood and water seeped between her fingers.

  I stepped forward and Marshaan’s hand shot out, blocking my path. I looked at him angrily, and he silently shook his head.

  “I don’t know your family, Caden,” he said quietly so only I could hear. “But even I can tell that this has been a long time boiling.”

  “But, they could kill each other.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t,” he answered honestly. “But I am wagering on his impulsiveness, and her maturity.”

  “And, what if you’re wrong?”

  “If I’m wrong?” He shook his head slowly, sadly. “Then it’s not her I worry for.”

  They squared off, slowly circling each other in the sloped meadow. Marcus was now singularly focused on Arteura, virtually ignoring the rest of us, blinded as he was by misguided duty, honor, frustration, and bitterness.

  “I don’t want to do this, Marcus,” Arteura said evenly.

  “You have no choice, sister. Look around you. You have already chosen your path. Our whole family has been destined from the start.”

  “What about your path, Marcus? What is the destiny chosen for you?”

  “I serve the Temple. I serve at the pleasure of the Elder.”

  “Even if that means spilling family blood?”

  “My family, sister,” he growled, “is the Cyneþrymm.”

  He arced an overhead blow, and Arteura blocked it and side-stepped. Marcus backed and jabbed, and Arteura flicked her wrist and parried it away.

  “You’re still giving away your moves, Marcus,” she said.

  He yelled his frustration and spun, slashing at her with a wide roundhouse then grabbing footing and slashing again.

  She dodged the blows, taking a step back, the blades in her fist a blur of back-and-forth motion, clack-clacking away his sword.

  He feinted a left-hand slash and changed his grip, spinning the weapon, and countered with a right. His blade found its mark at her side, ripping th
e robe and leaving a narrow, red gash.

  Arteura winced and staggered back.

  “You give away your moves as well, sister.”

  He stepped in and jabbed, connecting just above her kidney. Arteura screamed in pain and bent, holding her side with her bloody, rag-filled hand as a new stream of crimson spilled over her knuckles.

  He moved in, sensing victory.

  Marcus slashed again, and she blocked. He raised his blade, coming down with a crushing overhead blow. Arteura winced with the effort as she blocked again, their blades clashing in fury.

  As her wrist bent with the strain, she saw an opening. Growling out her frustration and fighting through the pain, with all her strength she shoved their blades to the side and spun. Marcus was caught, holding his weapon parallel to the ground, and Arteura whirled up the length of it, drawing back her double-sided weapon and connecting with a wicked full-weight punch to the bridge of his nose.

  Marcus grunted and bent.

  Arteura opened the hand clutched to her side, tossing the dried and spent rag aside as she flexed her freshly healed hand, the gash at her side a thin, crusted line. She advanced, renewed, a weapon in each hand now, as Marcus staggered back.

  She slashed, left then right; he blocked them limply, still staggering in retreat and holding his clearly broken nose with his free hand, his eyes wide.

  She spun with an arcing right hand and again he blocked, but she countered, spinning back, her left hand ready, slashing down the inside of his wrist holding his sword. He screamed out in pain and dropped the blade, still holding his nose but staring in utter shock at the oozing cut at the base of his hand.

  Arteura closed in, throwing her weapons aside as she cocked her arm and punched him a second time with an arcing blow across his temple, buckling him to his knees. She hit him a third time and he collapsed, slumping onto his back, his eyes fluttering. She fell to her knees, straddling him and pinning his shoulders; she drew back her fist, her face a mask of pent-up rage.

  I sprinted forward, grabbing her arm firmly and holding it back, her clenched fist shaking with the effort of release. Her wild eyes whirled to my hand, up my arm, and into my eyes.

  “Arteura!” I yelled. “Stop! This isn’t you. You’re better than this.”

  “You have no idea who I am, Tristan,” she seethed, “or what I’ve become.” She spun back to Marcus. “He was going to kill me.”

  “Yes,” I said, “he was. But he’s still our little brother, and he’s still just a boy. He’s blinded by youth and rage. Seduced into some misguided sense of belonging.”

  I shook her already-shaking arm with each word to gain her full attention. “Does any of that ignorance merit his death?”

  “Y-ye—” Her chest heaved, and her wild eyes began to water. Her hand still fought against my own, but I held firm. Then, just as quickly as her rage had come, she collapsed, dissolving into tears as she dropped her fist and her hands flew to her face, hiding her shame.

  She rose shakily to her feet and stepped off of her brother. He was moaning, his head moving slowly back and forth. His nose was bent and bloody, the hair at his temple matted and crusted in thick red, and his wrist was caked with dried blood and dirt.

  She grimaced, holding her side. The wound was healing, but had been reopened and fresh blood dripped over her fingers.

  I motioned to the others. “Lose some clothing and tear it into strips. Get as much water as you can. For the both of them.”

  They did, fumbling with buckles and clasps and tearing off tunics, ripping them to long shreds.

  Marcus was coming around again, mumbling. I knelt over him, putting a hand on his chest.

  “M-mother,” he mumbled. His eyes were still fluttering, rolling beneath their lids. He looked delirious.

  I glanced up at Arteura and motioned her over. She painfully knelt beside me.

  “Mother,” he whispered again.

  “What, Marcus?” she said. “What about Mother? Where is she?”

  “Gil-Gildrom.”

  “The Gildrom?” She looked at me curiously. “Why?”

  “Sacrifice.”

  “Yes, there’s a sacrifice today. I assumed that’s why the Rectors were here at the Miht—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “She is . . . sacrifice.”

  Again, Arteura looked at me. Suddenly, comprehension rose on her face, and she spun back to Marcus.

  “Are you saying that the Elder is using our mother as—”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  Marcus gradually sat up, flinching and groaning with the effort. When he looked at Arteura, his eyes were still clouded with venom. With considerable effort, he got to his feet and stepped back. “As she should be. Her death could finally bring a return of peace and prosperity to the Empire—all that has been robbed by our family in Tristan’s failure.”

  Inwardly, I grimaced. It took every ounce of effort not to say a word. If Arteura was no longer the little sister that I remembered from my youth, the boy before me now was certainly no longer my brother.

  Arteura blanched, her eyes searching me for some clue as to how to proceed.

  Marcus batted away a proffered wet rag from Rahn. Rahn looked at us helplessly and then brought the soaking pile to Arteura. She picked one out and held it to her side, then picked another, balled it and held it out to her brother.

  “Marcus,” she pleaded. “I can help you.”

  “With your Ma’wan magic? I’d rather bleed to death.”

  “You might,” I said. “If you don’t let her heal those wounds.”

  “And what do you care, traveler? Murderer?”

  He had backed himself to the edge of the Mihtcarr. I ignored his jab and asked, “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to return with a contingent of Þrymm guards,” he said, his eyes fixed purposely on Arteura. “Of course, you will probably be gone. But I promise you this, sister—I will hunt you down and return you to pay for the crimes you’ve committed. All of them.”

  Arteura lowered her face. “Oh, Marcus.”

  With that, he turned and hobbled over the Mihtcarr, climbing down with both pain and hatred in his eyes.

  We let him go. No one pursued. No one even tried.

  He was just a boy, after all. Well, maybe not a boy, but not yet a man. He was my brother, but he was no longer that, either. The truth was, I had no idea who he was now. Or who Arteura was. Or who I was, for that matter.

  Were we family? Were we strangers? Were we enemies? Were we all three? Or, was it something else?

  Where we would go from here was up to all of us, and yet so far beyond us. Personally, I didn’t want to take a single step, let alone think about the next hour, the next day, the coming years.

  Would Marcus hunt us down?

  I had no doubt he would try.

  If we returned to Cierra, would he find us there?

  That was a question for another day. Another lifetime.

  For now, I was reunited with this young woman across from me, with copper hair and fire in her eyes, and lethal weapons at her sides, wincing in pain from a wound inflicted by family. A wound she was healing with a magic as foreign to me as she herself was.

  How many more wounds did she bear, both inside and out? And would we have the time to learn each other’s stories, to heal a few of those wounds, and to build some semblance of life together, if not as a family, at least not as enemies and strangers?

  30

  Old Times, and Times Yet to Come

  “Did you hear what he said about my mother—our mother?”

  I nodded, as too many thoughts began crowding for space at the forefront of my brain. Could we save her? Could we get there in time? Should I come or just hope Arteura would be strong enough? Should we all come? What would the people of Brynslæd even think or believe when they saw us? Would they know who we truly are? Would it even matter?

  “Tristan? TRISTAN?! Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. I-
I just have no idea what to do.”

  Marshaan voiced one of my swirling questions. “Could we even get there in time?”

  “We have to try,” she answered. “I think I know a way along the mountain. Tristan, do you remember that path we found one time, the one that took us to that huge stand of blackberries?”

  “Over the walls of Brynslæd,” I said, a light beginning to dawn. “Yes. It came this way, didn’t it?”

  “It did,” she said. “In fact, years later, Marcus and I—” Her voice caught and she swiped away a tear in anger, clearing her throat before she started again. “Marcus and I went back up there, hoping to find those berries again. We didn’t. But we made it most of the way to the Mihtcarr below us. That’s how we found the spot where he and I used to train together, right over the ridge here.” She pointed to the right of Mihtcarr, where the terrain sloped away down toward what I assumed was the pathway back to the city.

  She turned to the rock wall behind us. “I think if we travel along the ridge here, we might meet up with that pathway. It lets out just above the Gildrom.”

  “I remember,” I said. “It’s worth a try.” I turned to the others. “Why don’t the three of you go back down the Mihtcarr falls, just in case. The path at the bottom of the pool leads back to Brynslæd from there. Just in case we get turned around up here. Someone needs to get to the Gildrom and stop that ceremony.”

  Marshaan nodded. “We’ll go. You two stay safe. And, for the gods’ sake, Caden, be smart.”

  I knew what he was talking about. He didn’t need to remind me of the dangers of revealing who we really were to the people of Brynslæd. Our encounter with the Rectors had cured me of that notion—especially if that was how they treated strangers.

  No, I had no intention of doing that. But, then again, I’d had no clue that I would end up meeting my sister or brother, or even making it all the way back to Brynslæd when yesterday began.

  The sun was reaching midday, high above us in a cloudless sky, and we were well on our way along the path that ran parallel to the rock wall of Dunwielm. Below us, we could see the larger, well-worn pathway that led to the Mihtcarr, where the others would be coming. But I had no idea whether they were ahead of or behind us at this point.